


I Guess That This Must Be The Place

by whatthefoucault



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Thor - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Fast Food, Feelings, Food, Genderfluid Loki (Marvel), M/M, Nightmares, Past Jane Foster/Thor, Pizza, Road Trips, Sleepy Cuddles, Soul-Searching, Soulmates, Space Stations, Tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2019-03-13 16:11:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13574157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatthefoucault/pseuds/whatthefoucault
Summary: He closed his eyes, and prayed his words would project over the distance, somehow:Count down from a hundred, and then come and find me, my sunshine.... in which the Grandmaster embarks on an intergalactic road trip in search of his love.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A little lighthousekeeping:
> 
> This follows on roughly from [Gamalost](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13207842), which is worth a read if you enjoy things like feelings, cheese, and good times on Sakaar, and also it's co-authored by one of my very favourite people in the whole wide world.
> 
> As for this story, it's set shortly after Infinity Shenanigans and whatever follows, where I am hereby putting my foot down and declaring that everyone gets at least SOME kind of reprieve from fate-of-the-universe level battles and stuff, regardless of what Marvel has to say about it.

It was the first time Loki had had a moment to gather himself since all of, well, all of it. There was an overriding sense in the air now that everything was finally fine, at least for the time being; Loki, however, could not help but feel an absence, a knowledge that something was missing. Although he was, along with his brother and their little merry band, settled in reasonable accommodation, he had the unshakable feeling that he was adrift.

At least the Grandmaster was alive, and not in danger. He _felt_ it, as clearly as he felt the the cold light of the stars casting a gentle glow over everything. Perhaps, he thought, if he could feel, he could reach out.

He closed his eyes, and prayed his words would project over the distance, somehow:

_Count down from a hundred, and then come and find me, my sunshine._

It was probably wishful thinking, but he swore he could almost hear a whispered promise in return.

\---

_... three, two, one._

“Ready or not, here I come!”

The Grandmaster opened his eyes, as though closing them had had any utility in these circumstances other than the conventions of the game. His environment had not changed, except - yep, somebody stole his sandals. Typical, he thought, as he flexed his now-bare feet against the uneven, unyielding ground beneath him. Just typical.

Sakaar, it turned out, had been a lot more fun when he was in charge of it. He had had a good run, a really, really good run, but if he played his cards right, he had a very good feeling he had a chance at something so much better.

But first, he had to get off of this planet.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Loki dreams, and the Grandmaster finds a ship.

Everything moved at a speed beyond anything even Loki could begin process: too fast, too dark, too loud. Screams, his own or someone else's, and then, silence: not even an ambient hum of life to break it. There was nothing left but Loki and his thoughts. He drew a gasping breath, and tasted blood.

He dreamed in a never-ending pageant of failures, of endless loss, of bad ideas and good intentions, of things that were categorically not his fault at all, and of things of which he could not so easily absolve himself.

And then somewhere, just peeking out from the darkness, a glimmer of gold. That was new.

And then he woke up.

Another bad dream, he thought. His subconscious had become almost gratingly predictable like that. It was too early to be awake, but sleep had lost its appeal. The bed was not large by any standards, but just spacious enough that it was all too easy to notice that he was the only one in it. In his exhaustion, he let himself imagine how it would feel to wake up next to the Grandmaster, heavy with sleep, and warm - the living equivalent of a stack of hot pancakes dripping with sweet, earthy maple syrup, and a generous scattering of raspberries, whispering soft mumblings of love and good morning. Such things were foolish to think about, he reminded himself, for as much as that little fizz of hope lived in him that they may be reunited, the little cloud of doubt and (if his past experience was anything to go by) realistic expectations kept it appropriately obscured, for the most part. He fumbled in the dark for the nearest piece of clothing - a soft pullover, it turned out - and shrugged it on as he stumbled on unsteady legs toward the kitchen.

\---

It was a good three hours (or at least it felt like three hours) of aimless shuffling through garbage dump after garbage dump before the Grandmaster encountered a man piling what looked to be a small bag of belongings into what looked to be a small space-faring vessel, though it might well have been a sophisticated-but-well-abused dumpster, given its apparent state of disrepair.

“Hey there, uhh, friend,” the Grandmaster began with an affable wave, approaching the man and his ship. “You don't happen to be planning a trip off-world, do you?”

The man eyed him carefully. “I might be,” he said at length.

“Well, isn't that just an amazing coincidence?” smiled the Grandmaster, stumbling as the vessel heaved disproportionately to the side as he attempted to lean casually against the doorframe. “I happen to be in the market for passage to, uhh... the Midlands?”

“... Midgard?”

"That's the one," the Grandmaster laughed.

“What takes you to Midgard?” asked the man. He was an imposing figure, his dark hair pulled tight into a neat bun, and unnecessarily shirtless.

“My... stardust,” the Grandmaster told him, with a maudlin smile.

“Stardust?”

“He's my, uhh, the thing is, we never really had a chance to... he's just,” the Grandmaster fumbled for words, gesturing ineffectually in their stead. Boyfriend seemed not quite right, or maybe it was.

“Someone you love,” offered the man.

“With all that I am,” the Grandmaster agreed.

“I understand,” the man smiled. “My warbound and beloved travelled with a band of heroes to prevent a series of major galaxy-level catastrophes while I helped lead the revolution here.”

The Grandmaster pouted. “That was you guys?” he asked. “Aww, jeez. I mean look, uhh, bygones and all that, but I gotta say the whole being overthrown thing kind of put a, put a real damper on the rest of my day.”

“Oh, that's why you look familiar.”

“Yep,” the Grandmaster confirmed, with an awkward flourish of hands. “Ta-daa.”

“I hope you don't expect me to apologise,” said the man.

“Ah, I'll get over it,” he shrugged. “So you need a co-pilot, or what?”

“... yes,” agreed the man, albeit with a noticeable measure of hesitancy.

“Well then, my name is the Grandmaster and I guess I'll, uhh, I'll be your co-pilot for this transgalactic journey.” The Grandmaster extended his hand to the man, who met it with a sturdy handshake.

“Hiroim the Oldstrong,” he said. “It is... bizarrely a pleasure to meet you.”

“You too, Haim,” said the Grandmaster.

“Hiroim.”

“What did I say?”

“Not my name,” said Hiroim.

“... Hermione?” ventured the Grandmaster.

“Hiroim,” he said. “Hi-ro-im. Hiroim.”

“H... iroim,” repeated the Grandmaster.

“That's better,” said Hiroim. “Go on, get in before I change my mind.”

The Grandmaster clambered into the cramped cockpit, dutifully fastening his seatbelt.

“Say, I don't suppose you've got a spare pair of slippers I can borrow, do you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess it's worth mentioning at this stage that this fic has [a soundtrack](https://open.spotify.com/user/samikelsh/playlist/2MhvVn5mCQ9Z3BD1kSNNYm), and that you can find me [on tumblr here](http://whatthefoucault.tumblr.com) if you want to yell about things or be my friend.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Loki makes a cup of tea, and the Grandmaster takes off.

Much to Loki's surprise, the kitchen lights were on, despite the late hour. Korg was seated at the far end of the kitchen table, crunching on a wedge of dark rye crispbread spread thickly with soft cheese.

“Can't sleep?” he asked, still chewing on the open sandwich.

“Can't sleep,” Loki agreed, setting the kettle on to boil. “Care for a top-up?”

Korg nodded. “Something decaf,” he said. “I mean, I guess the point of coffee would be to keep me awake for so long that I eventually fall asleep at a normal hour again, but I think I'd rather not take the risk.”

Loki nodded in silent agreement, and spooned two generous portions of peppermint leaves into the well-seasoned ceramic pot.

“I suppose,” he said.

“That and I miss my boyfriend, you know?”

“Boyfriend?” asked Loki. Korg blushed.

“I always sleep better when Hiroim's there,” he explained. “He's warm, and I like the way he makes me feel safe. I know what you're thinking, why would a big strong pile of rocks need to feel safe? Everyone wants to feel safe, don't be ridiculous.”

Korg rolled up his sleeves. His sweatshirt, which fell coquettishly down his right shoulder, bore a whimsical pineapple print. It was a bold choice. It suited him, somehow.

“I think I understand,” said Loki, carefully pouring the boiling water over the tea leaves, watching them turn and swell in their aromatic bath. He doubted he would ever sleep peacefully again. “You must miss him very much.”

“Of course I do,” Korg agreed, finishing the last bite of his crispbread. “I hope he's all right out there. I hope he's getting a fibre-rich diet. I hope he got my texts. There's basically zero signal in a lot of space.”

Loki nodded, pouring out two mugs of tea.

“Anyway,” Korg continued, “what's keeping you up, little sibling?”

Loki sighed. “It's complicated,” he said at length, setting the mugs down on the table. In fairness, it _was_ complicated. The laundry list of Things He Should Probably Be Talking About With A Therapist sat in a tangled, teetering pile that pressed heavily on his thoughts, threatening at any moment to tip and spill over.

“If I had to guess,” observed Korg, blowing away the little plumes of vapour that rose from his mug, “you're probably wondering what your place is now, what's your purpose. If you're not destined for great leadership and heroism like your brother, then what? You could try using your powers of mischief for good, but you're probably afraid that it's somehow inevitable that no matter how well-earned the trust and respect you have now may be, you'll betray that trust again just like everyone expects you'll do, but you're probably finding now more than ever that you don't want to.”

“That's... alarmingly perceptive, Korg.” Loki sniffled slightly, in spite of himself. He was too tired to keep his guard from slipping away, just a little. He sipped his tea.

“That and you probably miss your boyfriend, too,” said Korg. “Or girlfriend. Or special nonbinary friend.”

Loki blushed. “How did you guess?”

“Because you're the only other person here who's been staring wistfully out of windows as much as I have since we got here, like there would be a soft rock ballad playing behind you if you were an actor in the last 5 minutes of a tv drama,” he said.

“... it's a fair assessment,” conceded Loki.

“Want to split another knäckebröd and watch old episodes of _M*A*S*H_ until everyone's awake, maybe cry it out a bit?” asked Korg, sliding a large, crispy round from the colourful paper parcel.

Loki shrugged. "Why not,” he said. “Is there any more of that cheese?”

\---

The Fiesta was bad; objectively terrible, even. There was a nagging question in the back of the Grandmaster’s mind as to whether it would make it beyond the system without sputtering a slow, agonising death. At least it had made it off of the planet, he thought. That was the first step.

“What did you say his name was again? Your uhh, warbound? Greg?” asked the Grandmaster, searching idly through the radio stations the ship was able to pick up in this sector. So much _country_.

“Korg,” said Hiroim, still staring ahead into the slow-moving stars as the systems completed their safety checks.

“Korg, right,” he nodded. “Like those little dogs with the, uhh, the tiny legs.”

“That's a corgi,” clarified Hiroim. “He's just Korg.”

“Oh, like the keyboard!”

“What?” puzzled Hiroim. “No, he's not a computer, he's Kronan.”

“So he's, like, rocks?”

“Basically.”

The Grandmaster nodded, checking and adjusting the heating, which seemed to have an infinitesimally small window between the-frozen-vacuum-of-space and the-corona-of-an-especially-large-sun.

“So he's rocks, and you're, uhh, so how do you two, uhh, you know, how do you... how do you…”

The Grandmaster waggled his eyebrows. Hiroim smiled softly into the expanse of stars before them. “Love finds a way.”

“That’s pretty reassuring.” The Grandmaster could not help but smile at this: he was still new to this whole being in love business, and there was something refreshing about being an absolute beginner at something after all this time. Millions of years on, it was a rare occurrence; that was, at least, until lovely Loki fell from the sky and things became interesting again. Granted, the whole revolution thing was less than pleasant, but hey, best of luck to all the former prisoners on finding an employer with a better health insurance plan on Sakaar, he thought. Bully for them, or whatever. Onwards and outwards. Into space. Love finds a way.

“Okay, all systems, such as they are, are in order,” Hiroim confirmed. “Let’s lay in a course for Midgard.”

“Aye aye, captain,” the Grandmaster agreed with a dramatic salute, and closed his eyes. He reached out with his mind, his feelings, out into the darkness, past all the little voices on all the little planets between here and there, and there was Loki: a faint whisper of incandescent magic on a faraway planet. Even at such vast distance, their connection could not be broken.

“The GPS,” Hiroim reminded him, tapping the console.

“My heart is my compass,” said the Grandmaster, inputting a new heading.

“I’m not convinced your heart can account for road works and asteroid fields, and this isn't how I want to die,” countered Hiroim, reaching past the Grandmaster and switching the GPS back on himself.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Loki makes mischief, and the Grandmaster attempts to have a snack.

There was still much to be done, but most of it, for the time being, mostly seemed to involve waiting for other people to decide what to do. 

When he was filling in for their dad, Loki had found that one of the best ways to avoid doing any real, boring, tedious, or dull work, also had the unintended side-effect of making his subjects feel empowered; that was to say, if someone asked him to make a decision about anything boring (and most of it, it turned out, was boring), he would ask "well, what would you suggest we do?" and simply agree to whatever they suggested. Advisors felt respected and trusted, and Loki was left to direct his dramaticals and eat grapes. Perhaps, he thought, he should write a best-selling book on his management technique, but that, quite frankly, sounded awfully tedious too.

Now, he sat, comfortably coiled on the kitchen table like a pretty little scaly cinnamon bun, waiting for Thor to return from whatever tedium he was taking care of with Heimdall only to discover that the house had been visited by a happy little snake in his absence, whereupon Loki would reveal himself, and hilarity would ensue.

Apart from the fact that it had been what felt like hours, and Thor was nowhere to be seen. Korg had passed through to make his lunch, singing tunelessly along with the radio, and mumbling past most of the words. Valkyrie had made a rare appearance, staring into the fridge for what had to have been a solid ten minutes before selecting the jug of milk, from which she took a single, ostensibly disappointing sip, and then left. No one seemed to take notice of the little snake on the kitchen table.

The sun had almost slipped away into night, and still no sign of his brother. It was all he could do to keep his form from slipping back into its usual bipedal state. Just then, that glimmer of gold waved again from just beyond the corner of his awareness. The Grandmaster was on the move. He leaned into the little light he found there: _here I am,_ his mind whispered into the dark, _you're getting warmer._

“Hello, little friend!” Thor greeted him warmly as he bounded into the room, gently gathering Loki's coiled form in his strong hands, and laying him on his shoulder. “Where did you come from, hmm?”

Loki stuck out his tongue in response.

“Aww, who's got a little blep?” asked Thor. “You do, little one! Yes you do! Yes you do!”

He could have carried on the charade for longer - and a long con would have been fun, though he posited that even Thor would have begun to grow suspicious that he never did see Loki and that cute little snake friend of his in the same room - but it was taking all of his magical will to retain serpentine form, and his will was exhausted. Without quite trying, he burst back into human form with a puff of magic, sending both of them tumbling to the floor.

“Ow!” protested Thor. “What the - ”

“Haha! It was me all along!” declared Loki, as triumphantly as he could while tangled in a crumpled heap.

“Brother!” Thor attempted to disentangle himself. “That wasn't very nice.”

“It was pretty funny, though,” shrugged Loki.

Thor sat up gingerly, helping Loki to his feet. “You're not going to stab me again, are you?”

“Too tired,” said Loki. “I've been a snake for hours. Want to order a pizza?”

“Verily,” Thor agreed. “Extra meatballs, no peanuts, no banana.”

\---

The Grandmaster had spent so long on Sakaar that he could scarcely recall the last time he had properly travelled through space; as such, he had allowed himself to forget how much of nothing there was, and for such great distances. At some point, a bit of passing flotsam became a remarkable occurrence, something to excite the senses, if only for a nanosecond or two.

“I'm thinking of writing, uhh, a little poem for my sweetheart,” he said, watching a little meteoroid scoot past the window. “Do you think he'd like that?”

“I've never met him,” replied Hiroim.

“Oh, he's just the best,” the Grandmaster beamed, recalling his beloved. “He's got this, this soft hair, and he smells nice, and I just love the way he talks, and his, uhh, he's got these, these little magic tricks. He is, absolutely, _ruthless_ , at Hungry Hungry Hippos. And I know he's scheming, and self-serving, probably thought about selling me out once or twice, but then we fell in love, and, uhh, yep. There's just something about him that makes me want to, oh I don't know, love him and be with him forever?”

“You two sound like a perfect pair,” said Hiroim, navigating the ship around a small field of debris.

“So how did you and, uhh... Korg?”

“Korg, yes.”

“How did you and, uhh, yeah, Korg, meet?” asked the Grandmaster. He had chipped his nail varnish, and had no more to fix it with.

“We met in the arena,” Hiroim told him. “He's a formidable fighter, but with such a kind heart. I was icing my bruises after the match, and... he brought me a frozen yoghurt.”

“Ooh, what flavour?” asked the Grandmaster, lighting up.

“Uhh, strawberry.”

“Aww, that's the best one!” enthused the Grandmaster. “Say, is there anything to eat in here besides these uhh, weird old cheese strings I found in the glove compartment?”

“What? No, those aren't - those are emergency candles,” cautioned Hiroim. “Don't eat - okay, stop eating, okay, you're still... that can't be delicious.”

The Grandmaster politely spat the bland, waxy cheese into a tissue.

“That is the second worst cheese I've ever had,” he said.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Loki wears her myrtle silk pyjamas, and the Grandmaster stops for snacks.

Sleep was a fickle friend, thought Loki: it fled all too easily, and for such little time as it was present, it was far from restful. She rolled herself up and out of the bed.

So this was who she was today, she thought; indeed, it had been too long. She flexed and stretched her arms and shoulders, wincing at the sharp ache in her lower back that grew as she leaned forward to turn up the hems of her now slightly too long myrtle pyjamas. Although it obscured the elegant gold piping that encircled the cuffs, it was surely more elegant than tripping over her own trouser legs at breakfast. Half past four, the clock told her. It was an hour more than the night before, and would have to do.

“Still can't sleep?”

Loki found Korg in the kitchen again, stood by the stove and cradling a heavy saucepan in the crook of his elbow, vigorously stirring with a wooden spoon.

“What _ever_ are you making?” asked Loki.

“Russian fudge,” replied Korg.

Loki had never paid much attention to the art and science of cooking: it so happened that everywhere one went, there were kitchens and people willing to prepare food for you for some small remuneration. Or because you were a king, sometimes. Even as a child, the process happened somewhere else and then a meal was served; after all, princes were not meant to spend time in kitchens.

But so much time had passed since then, and Russian fudge sounded nice.

“Fudge is good. What makes it Russian?” she asked him.

“I don't know,” said Korg, pouring the thick mixture into a large square tin. “It's mostly butter and sugar and condensed milk.”

“It sounds perfect,” said Loki. “Did you make enough for two?”

Korg eyeballed the tin thoughtfully. “Just about,” he concluded. “But we've got to leave it to set. Wait a minute, Loki, do you - ”

Loki could tell that Korg was about to ask the question.

“Yes, yes, I'm still me, and - ”

“Do you think it would be even nicer if we sprinkled on some chocolate chips while it's still warm?”

“Oh,” she puzzled, self-consciously adjusting the hem of her pyjama shirt. “Yes, that sounds... splendid.”

“Good,” Korg agreed, fetching the heavy little bag of tasty nuggets from the cupboard. “Oh, no. Raisins.”

Loki hopped as gracefully as she could onto the counter. Korg smoothed over the surface of the fudge with the back of his spoon.

“I need to know that he knows what he means to me,” she said, plucking a handsome bottle of chilli-studded olive oil from the countertop. She had good reason to suspect it would pass its expiry date before even being opened, but it was the kind of thing Midgardians put in their kitchens. “What if he thinks I betrayed him? What if he isn't coming after all? I keep thinking I can feel that he's travelling, getting closer, but what if it's wishful thinking? What if he never wants to see me again? I can't - ”

“I'm sure he knows you love him very much,” Korg reassured her, rifling through the cupboards, past the instant noodles and inexplicable box of custard powder, “and he knows you're a - he knows you're trying your best?”

Loki dried her eyes as best she could on her sleeve. So stupid, she thought.

“Was I an idiot to let myself fall in love with him?” she asked, quietly.

“Do you think I'm an idiot?” asked Korg. She puzzled a moment at the question.

“Yeah,” she nodded. “Of course.”

“Oh,” said Korg.

Miek shuffled in, dragging a heavy, disconcertingly sharp hand over his sleepy face.

“Kik kik,” he said.

“Russian fudge,” said Korg.

“Kik?”

“No, just raisins.”

Miek made a face at that. “Kik kik kik,” he said.

“That's a good question,” replied Korg. “Loki, do you know if we have any ants' eggs we could sprinkle on top of the fudge?”

\---

“Hey, do you mind if we stop for snacks?” asked the Grandmaster, as they neared the orbit of a lively-looking planet.

“We stopped for snacks three hours ago,” said Hiroim, maintaining their original heading.

“I didn't realise how snack hungry I was going to be when we stopped back there,” protested the Grandmaster. “And the snacks on that planet? Really not the greatest.”

Hiroim sighed. “Fine,” he conceded. “Let's have a proper meal, and _then_ straight on to Midgard. Deal?”

“Deal,” the Grandmaster agreed, clapping his hands together decisively as they approached the planet. “Would you look at that, this place even has orbital drive-thru.”

“Welcome to Galactic Snax, may I take your order?” came the tinny, muffled voice as the ship pulled up to the colourful speaker.

“Yeah, hi,” the Grandmaster began, squinting at the menu board. “Could I get, uhh, two flrrms with cheese, no mayo, a large order of gleeb - you sure you don't want any gleeb?”

Hiroim shook his head. “... it gives me gas,” he admitted. The Grandmaster winced in sympathy, and nodded.

“One large order of gleeb, uhh, a salted yoghurt - ”

“Do you want to make them a combo?” asked the speaker.

“What?” replied the Grandmaster.

“Do you want to make them a combo?” repeated the speaker.

“What?” repeated the Grandmaster.

“Do. You. Want. To. Make. Them. A. Combo?”

The Grandmaster considered it a moment.

“What?”

The radio fuzz of the speaker clicked silent for a moment, and there came an audible sigh from beyond the drive-thru window ahead of them before the fuzz resumed.

“The Galactus Mega Meal offers any side and drink with the order of a flrrm for only 600 credits,” said the speaker, in the sort of monotone which suggested that the words had been spoken so many times they had ingrained themselves into muscle memory.

“Okay, umm, what's on the drinks menu?” asked the Grandmaster.

“We've got Splat, Diet Splat, Orange Splat, Extreme Vanilla Nova Splat, Limited-Edition Holiday Spice Splat, and blue milk,” said the speaker. The Grandmaster turned to Hiroim.

“Just a Splat, I guess,” he said with a shrug.

“Let's go for... one Splat, and a, and a blue milk.”

“Okay, so that's two flrrm combos with cheese, no mayo, a large gleeb and a salted yoghurt, one Splat, and a blue milk,” confirmed the speaker. “Anything else?”

“That'll be it, thanks,” the Grandmaster agreed.

“Your total comes to 3200 credits, please fly to the next window to pick up your order.”

“Aren't you glad we stopped now?” the Grandmaster asked, as they pulled forward along the drive thru laneway. “You know something, it's gotta be like, oh, a good couple of millennia since the last time I had flrrm.”

“Then I hope it lives up to your memories,” said Hiroim, as the Grandmaster tapped through their payment, and piled two warm paper bags and two oversized paper soft drink cups into the ship. It was then that he noticed the ship's biggest, most fatalest flaw of all:

“Uhh, Hiroim, how the hell does this bucket of bolts not even have cupholders?”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Loki is a good sibling, and the Grandmaster refuels the ship.

Waiting for pizza was the worst thing about pizza. Loki wondered if they would ever branch out from pizza - she knew there were other things to eat on Midgard, but pizza was easy and universally adored, and none of their little merry band were ready to take on cooking actual food themselves.

Except, perhaps, Korg: if his Russian fudge experiment was any indication, thought Loki, that one could probably throw together a pot of spaghetti with minimal instruction. Nonetheless, Loki and her brother found themselves once again seated on the uncomfortable wooden bench in the little takeaway, waiting for their order. Several minutes passed in near-companionable silence; then, Loki had an idea.

“Hey, remember that Midgardian who dumped you,” she began.

“Yeah, it was actually more of a mutual agreement?” clarified Thor. “But thank you for reminding me.”

“Fine, that Midgardian who mutually dumped you,” shrugged Loki. “Plane?”

“Jane,” Thor corrected her.

“James?”

“Jane.”

“Jeans.”

“Jane. It's Jane,” repeated Thor.

“... Midgardian names are so weird,” Loki concluded. She gazed idly up at the wall-mounted menu board. They should have ordered extra cheese.

Thor sighed. “What about Jane?”

“I just thought it would be nice if I could do something nice for you,” Loki smiled. She meant it. “A token of our sibling solidarity. So, would you like me to put a curse on your ex-girlfriend for you?”

“What? No!” protested Thor. “I still have much respect for Jane. We didn't part on such bad terms, and even if we had... I would never wish any harm on her.”

“Brother.” Loki sighed, clapping her brother on the shoulder. “I wasn't suggesting I _murder_ her. This is the Mistress of Mischief you're talking to. How about... every date she goes on for the rest of her life, there's always something in her teeth? Think of it, no matter what, every date, every movie and every dinner and every coffee, there's something in her teeth. Maybe it's a bit of kale, maybe some parsley or a chunk of a walnut, but just distracting enough that it will ruin every date she ever goes on.”

“Absolutely not,” said Thor, arms crossed. “I tell you, I owe her no ill will!”

“Of course,” Loki agreed, “but what if every carton of milk she buys goes off the moment she opens it, even if it's in date?”

“No,” insisted Thor.

“A lifetime of bad haircuts?”

“Loki, no.”

“... one bad haircut?” she suggested. “Next haircut, absolutely abysmal. Nothing will fix it. She'll just have to either buzz the whole thing off, or grow it out. What do you think?”

Thor seemed to be considering it.

“One bad haircut,” he agreed. “Thank you, sister.”

Korg was right, of course: it _did_ feel nice using her powers of mischief for good. Loki was no hero, she knew it well, but there was no reason to let heroes have all the fun, either.

\---

The road to Midgard was long enough that eventually, one or both co-pilots would need to break for sleep; thus, the Grandmaster found himself passing the last few hours on his own, while Hiroim clambered into the cramped back seat, such as it was, to rest his eyes.

The Grandmaster found ways to keep himself entertained: he hummed the music from Tetris for a while, read the nutritional information on the back of his bag of flrrm (this was a mistake), and he imagined what Loki might be doing. He hoped he was safe and unharmed. He wondered if he was happy on Midgard. He wondered what Loki was wearing, and how revealing it was. He lingered on wondering about that for a while, about how it would feel letting his fingers dip just beneath the neckline of Loki's soft shirt, or finding all of the places he liked to be kissed, or even just burrowing down together beneath a bundle of supple silken blankets, content to be in each other's company again.

There was a part of him that wished they could have stayed forever in his great, golden tower: his DJ night had been scheduled for a few days after what had turned out to be Revolution Day, and Loki had promised to dance with him. They could have been so happy there, but part of him could not help but positively vibrate with anticipation at the prospect of something new, something interesting, something good.

He was pulled, quite rudely, from his extremely pleasant reverie, by the loudly flashing indicator which declared in no uncertain terms that fuel reserves were reaching dangerously low levels.

“Hey, hey, buddy!” he shouted into the back. Hiroim stirred slowly, dragging himself back into the front seat. “Uhh, should I be alarmed about this... alarm?”

“Is something the matter?” asked Hiroim, bleary-eyed, but waking.

“I have no idea how to refuel this thing,” the Grandmaster told him. “I guess I could have tried to figure it out and let you keep on sleeping back there, but like, combustible materials, unknown atmospheres, uhh…”

The Grandmaster attempted to mime a catastrophic explosion. The next sign he saw for a fuelling station, he pulled over. The sign boasted comprehensive services and amenities. It was, it turned out, on a planet about the size of a single parking space. The signs always did seem to exaggerate the grandeur of these places, but there was minor embellishment and then there was making a lavish resort out of a postage stamp.

“Uhh, Hiroim... where's the station?” asked the Grandmaster, but before either of them could speculate, they were being hailed.

“Welcome to P'vok'rik Station,” came a friendly voice over the comms. “Please wait while we prepare your craft for shrinkening, then follow the illuminated signs to your parking space.”

“Did she just say... shrinkening?” puzzled Hiroim.

“During the shrinkening process, you may notice an itching sensation in your teeth, or teeth-like appendages,” the voice continued. “This is a common, harmless side effect which typically subsides within five minutes. Thank you for choosing P'vok'rik Station. We hope you enjoy your stay.”

As if on cue, the Grandmaster felt what could indeed only be described as incredibly itchy teeth. 

“Aww, no, no, no, this is not, no,” he complained to Hiroim, running his tongue over his teeth. “I don't like this.”

Hiroim had scrunched his face into an ugly grimace. “She really was not joking about the teeth,” he mumbled, running his thumb and forefinger over his canines.

It was almost dizzying watching the planet seeming to expand before them at impossible speed as they attempted to make their approach into what turned out to be a comprehensive and very busy underground parking garage. A tinny but overbearing PA system advised visitors to visit the 97th floor for complimentary muffins, and that the re-embiggening process upon departure was sometimes accompanied by the sensation that one was about to sneeze. One was not about to sneeze, advised the announcement.

Inside the planet's only building, which at normal size looked like little more than an outhouse, was a dazzling, multistorey civilization: the main concourse was lined with curious little market stalls, peddling what seemed to be an endless array of goods, while helpful drones carried things and beautiful elevators carried people to the upper floors of the city. This could be a nice place to be in charge of someday, thought the Grandmaster - with Loki by his side, of course. They were a team now. The Grandmaster had never been part of a team before: team sports were never much of his thing, except maybe betting on them, but this was different. It was as though their spirits hummed with perfectly harmonious frequencies. It was almost strange to think that they had only known each other a few weeks, barely a blip in the lifespan of someone as ancient as the Grandmaster, and yet now it seemed that a life without Loki was so anathema to anything resembling an acceptable existence that it scarcely bore contemplating.

That was when he spotted the interplanetary telephone booth, parked in a quiet corner past a few interesting market stalls he would have to investigate on his way back to the ship.

“Please state the name of the planet you would like to call,” said the automated operator.

“Uhh, Midgard?” ventured the Grandmaster.

“One moment please.”

A dark-haired man with interesting facial hair appeared onscreen. He looked distracted.

“You've reached Stark, who the hell gave you this number?”

“Yes! Hi, hello, hi,” the Grandmaster replied with a wave. “I don't suppose, uhh, Loki's there, by any chance?”

“He doesn't work here,” said Stark, “we're not friends. Wait, why are you calling _me_?”

“This is the first result that came up when I asked for Midgard,” shrugged the Grandmaster.

“Figures,” Stark sighed. “Okay, I recognise that this is a stupid question, but just so we're clear, are you now, or at any point in the near future, planning to invade and take over this planet?”

“Nooooooo thank you,” grimaced the Grandmaster with an uncomfortable chuckle. “I can see why you'd think I'm, uhh, benevolent world leader material, but - ”

“Okay, so what the hell do you want? I've got - ”

Whatever the end of Stark's sentence was, it was obscured by the loud, friendly chime informing the Grandmaster that he had thirty seconds of credit left on his intergalactic calling card. Wow, he thought, these things were terrible value for money.

“Ah, listen, my time's almost up on this stupid thing,” he said, feeling the urgency rising in his tone, “just, just if you see Loki, please tell him that I got his message, and I'll see him soon, okay? Tell him - ”

Before he could finish, he was cut off by the shrill tone that followed a disconnected call.

“Tell him I love him,” the Grandmaster said softly, though there was no one there to hear it. He flicked the spent calling card into the nearest garbage bot, and shuffled, defeated, back to the parking garage.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thor gets a text message, and the Grandmaster goes for a swim.

There was nothing on television. There was never anything on television. Loki was so _bored_. Thor had joined him an hour into his tour of old cooking shows that some enterprising soul had made available on demand. An eccentric, loud American woman was demonstrating how to set crèpes on fire. Thor's phone rumbled just as he made to take a drink of his tea, sending a splash dramatically flying from the mug and onto the front of his shirt. It was all Loki could do to keep from laughing.

“I've had a strange message from Stark,” said Thor, dabbing at his stained shirt with a napkin. “I believe it's for you.”

“What could _he_ possibly have to say to _me_?” Loki scoffed at the thought. Thor's Midgardian friends, for the most part, did not like Loki. This was fine; he did not like them either, whatever, see if he cared. Loki had his own friends. The woman on the television was joyously pouring cointreau over a plate of pancakes again.

“It says: ‘Yo Odinson, got a weird facetime to my emergency Commissioner Gordon phone this morning,’” Thor read aloud. “‘Some weird dude, who was totally wearing too much guyliner for anybody in the silver fox demographic, told me to tell your idiot brother that he got his message and he'll be there as soon as he can. I don't know who this guy is or what that means, but please let Loki know from me that if he's planning anything, I'll personally kick his ass.’ Does this mean anything to you, brother?”

The Grandmaster. _Sunshine._ The knowledge, the certainty that came with it, warmed him. Goodness knew how or why he managed to leave a message with Stark of all people, but there was no denying the immense wave of relief that came with knowing he would see his beloved again.

“Just tell him... tell him thank you,” he said, barely containing his emotions. “Also, tell him his hair looks stupid.”

Thor sighed. “Fine,” he agreed, typing out a reply. “‘Loki... says... thank you, and... your hair... looks... stupid. Let's... meet soon... for... pancakes.’ And... sent. Why is a fox giving messages to Stark to give to you?”

“Okay,” he began, puffing out a slow breath. “Thor, brother, do you remember, on Sakaar, that nice man with the gold robes and the whole arena and the... party ship, all that?”

“The Grandmaster,” said Thor. “Wait, _nice_ man?”

Loki smiled sheepishly.

“Yeah, about that,” he said. “Great news, I'm seeing someone!”

Thor squinted. “Seriously? Him?”

“Him,” nodded Loki. Thor was giving him a look. It was the kind of look where he blinked a lot, as though he was attempting to say something, but kept thinking better of it, but then decided to say it anyway, but then thought better of it again. “What?”

“Well, it would have been very cunning of you to gain the favour of the most important person on Sakaar... when we were on Sakaar,” he reasoned, “but now? What could you possibly stand to gain from him?”

“Oh, I don't know,” protested Loki. “Maybe acceptance? Belonging? Unconditional love?”

“Your friends love you,” Thor told him, clapping a hand softly on his shoulder. “And your family.”

“And sex,” added Loki. “I find him _incredibly_ sexy. I mean, look at him! The way he talks with his hands, the way he smiles, that strangely revealing gold dressing gown - ”

“La la la la la lalalala ala laa lala la la la la la lalalalalalala I can't hear you!” shouted Thor, fingers jammed into his ears. “This is not something I wish to know about my sibling!”

Loki barely stifled a giggle. Thor took a deep breath, and collected himself.

“Very well, brother,” he said, between clenched teeth. “If you are truly happy, then I'm happy for you. But know this: if he hurts you, in any way, I will rain down an endless thunderstorm of pain upon him.”

Loki smiled softly, drawing his brother into an awkward hug. “That is so sweet of you,” he said. “Wait a minute, since when do you have a phone?”

\---

“What is that ungodly smell?” Hiroim heaved slightly, his face downturned in an uncomfortable grimace, as the ship returned to standard size, sputtering out of orbit.

“This? Just something I picked up in one of the market stalls while the ship was refuelling.” The Grandmaster pulled the small wheel of cheese from his robes. “This is a, a rare, uhh, Bongolian yak's milk cheese, that I haven't seen, anywhere, in oh... three thousand years, maybe? I thought it would make a perfect little token of my love.”

“Please, I'm begging you, if you actually love this man, do not give him that,” Hiroim heaved. “It smells three thousand years old. It smells like someone crawled inside it and died.”

The Grandmaster felt palpably wounded. “Well, excuse you! It's not spoiled, it's... distinctive!”

“I am not transporting that... smell, all the way to Midgard,” said Hiroim.

“Suit yourself there, friend,” shrugged the Grandmaster, ejecting himself, and the cheese, out of the airlock. If he had to, he would swim to Loki all by his lonesome.

Technically, the Grandmaster could survive indefinitely in the vacuum of space; however, this did not mean he enjoyed it. It was cold, and there was no radio, or snacks: just one very old lovestruck fellow and the vast expanse of space. Nonetheless, he had a reasonably powerful breaststroke, and at the very least, it felt as though he was moving forward.

That was, until Hiroim pulled up beside him in the Fiesta.

“This is stupid,” he shouted out of the pilot-side window. “Get back in the ship.”

“I'm not ditching the cheese,” the Grandmaster replied resolutely.

“I'm telling you, it's gone rancid!” protested Hiroim. “Look, your love isn't expecting you to bring souvenirs. He'll just be glad to see you safe and well, and not exhausted from centuries of swimming through space.”

“I'll have you know I'm an excellent swimmer!” shouted the Grandmaster, attempting to speed his pace, as though even the Fiesta would have any trouble matching him.

Hiroim let out a very heavy sigh. “Then do it for me,” he said. “I still need a co-pilot.”

The Grandmaster stopped. Perhaps he was right after all.

“Well, okay,” he acquiesced, gliding back into the airlock. “How can I say no to that stern, terrifying face?”

He carefully unpeeled a corner of the cheese's waxed paper wrapping, taking a long sniff of its wrinkled, greying rind.

OHHHHHHHHHH WOW. That was an olfactory wallop, to say the least, he thought. It smelled like embalmed feet, still in their old socks, wrapped in expired ham, with a liberal sprinkle of malt vinegar.

“All right, all right, I give,” he agreed, hands raised in defeat. “Just... just eject it.”

The Grandmaster watched the tiny parcel float off into the distance, to join the multitudes of forgotten flotsam and jetsam that littered the highways of space. The Grandmaster did not like litter. It was, like, his third least favourite thing about Sakaar.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Loki has his hair done, and the Grandmaster recites a poem.

Loki looked tired; scratch that, he thought, he looked _exhausted_. He had enlisted Korg to help him arrange his hair in an elaborate braid: he would have asked Thor, but something about the pained expression Thor made every time Loki tucked his long hair behind his ear, or tossed his long hair casually over his shoulder, told him that the unfortunate haircut was still so fresh in his brother's memory that a braiding session would have ended in a dramatic waterfall of tears. No one wanted that.

But was it too obvious, he wondered, too ostentatious and too beyond his usual aesthetic to seem anything other than absolutely desperate for the Grandmaster's affections, and desperation was the antithesis of attractive. That being said, if there was anyone who would have appreciated someone making an effort for them, it was surely the Grandmaster.

His hair had still been slightly damp from the bath when it was braided; if he unpicked it now, he thought, it would untangle into a tumble of soft waves.

“Kissing your reflection for practice?” Valkyrie asked him, nudging him in the ribs slightly harder than was strictly necessary as she passed him in the corridor.

“How's my hair?” he asked her, rubbing his lightly bruised side.

“What? I don't know, it's fine?” she shrugged.

“Fine?” he repeated incredulously. “Fine, as in great, fine as in you're trying to be polite and it's awful, _fine_ as in you recognise my inherent sexual magnetism and what you meant to say was fine with a much more complimentary inflection? In which case, I have to tell you, my dear, I'm flattered, but - ”

“Fine as in I don't care what your hair looks like,” she interjected. “It's clean and it's not on fire. You're good, mate.”

She clapped him heavily on the shoulder, and retired to the living room.

He regarded himself a moment longer, then began gently pulling strands of hair from their plaited pattern, teasing them out into gentle waves with his fingers. It did little to distract from the dark circles that had gathered and pooled beneath his eyes, of course, but nothing short of a few weeks' solid sleep could cure them now.

“Aww, what the hell, man?”

Korg stood at the other end of the corridor, shoulders slumped in dejection.

“That braid took us ages,” he said. His sweatshirt was emblazoned with a stylized, sad cactus. Loki had no idea where he kept finding these clothes.

“Sorry.” Loki patted Korg on his predictably pointy shoulder, smiling sheepishly. “It was a good braid. I took a selfie.”

“Thanks, little sibling,” said Korg, as they stepped out onto the patio. The sunset cut a violent red gash across the evening sky; a luminescent wound separating the horizon and the heavy ridge of dark clouds above. “I wonder where Hiroim is right now. I hope he's drinking enough water. You've got to stay hydrated in space.”

“What will become of us now?” Loki scanned the darkening sky for any little lights that might have been spacecraft, but could see only stars.

“I think I'm going to ask Hiroim to marry me,” replied Korg. “Maybe we'll even have a few rocklings running around in a couple years.”

Loki nodded mutely. Marriage had always seemed like the sort of thing boring people with boring lives did, or the sort of thing that people who had less reasons not to trust other people did, who liked things like compromise and supporting each other and shopping for antiques on the weekend, taking their dogs to the park and picking up their disgusting business in flimsy little plastic baggies. But now his thoughts inevitably turned to the Grandmaster, and suddenly the whole thing seemed to be floating ever closer to the realm of possibility.

“As for you,” Korg continued, “why not just enjoy spending some time with the people who matter to you? Use your powers for good, where you can. See if Banner can recommend a good therapist. Forgive yourself. Be the master of your own destiny. Be free.”

When Korg put it that way, he thought, the whole thing sounded almost plausible, almost good.

“Do you think it's possible?” he asked.

“Sure,” replied Korg. “Also, have you ever considered a career in the theatre?”

\---

“Tell me something, uhh, Hiroim,” mused the Grandmaster, watching the little blue ball in the distance grow slowly nearer, “have you ever been in love?”

“Seriously?” asked Hiroim. “We've been travelling together for days. We've talked at length about my feelings for Korg.”

“Sure, sure,” agreed the Grandmaster, “I just really feel that, uhh, nobody's ever been as much in love, with anyone, as I am with Loki.”

“It's not a competition,” said Hiroim.

“I know,” replied the Grandmaster, “but, like, if it was, I'd be the winner.”

Hiroim let out a long, slow breath. “Okay,” he said.

They were out of snacks, but near enough to Midgard that any further delay in reaching his beloved was hardly worth it. But boy, was the Grandmaster snack hungry. He hoped there would be snacks on Midgard.

“How's this, uhh, for a bit of love poetry for my stardust,” said the Grandmaster, swiping a fingertip along the bottom of his sadly depleted packet of Salty Torvald's Super Salty Licorice Blasters, hoping to find a little extra flavoursome dust there. Finding nothing, he stuffed the crumpled packet under his seat, and cleared his throat with a dramatic purr. “Ok, so it goes, ‘my prince of tears, let me kiss away each of your sorrows, and where tears once fell, now flowers will grow.’”

Hiroim took a moment to appreciate the Grandmaster's poetic skill.

“Are you accepting constructive criticism?” he asked.

The Grandmaster was about to assure Hiroim that he would gratefully accept critique if he ever found himself in need, when the ship's proximity alert began to flash.

“Uhh, I don't mean to alarm you,” said the Grandmaster, double-checking to be sure he was reading what he thought he was reading, “but... we're here.”

“We're here,” repeated Hiroim, checking the GPS. “Oh, we're _here_!”

The Grandmaster felt himself almost trembling with anticipation: this was silly, he told himself - after all, what was there to be nervous about? Besides absolutely everything of course, because there was absolutely everything to be nervous about.

“Ok, ok uhh, let's do this, let's go to Midgard,” asserted the Grandmaster. “How do I look?”

“You look like you've been travelling in a cramped, old spacecraft for days,” Hiroim told him. “Your boyfriend's not going to care.”

“Uhh.” The Grandmaster examined the fast approaching planet on the GPS screen. “Do you know what bit of Midgard we're supposed to land in?”

Hiroim stared at the apparently vast planet before them. “Oh,” he said. “Shit.”

“Hey, hey, hey, let me try,” said the Grandmaster, closing his eyes. “My heart is my compass.”

The Grandmaster let the doors of his mind slide gently open, and reached out toward the planet. Past the white noise and the jumble of chatter, he found a little green plume of magic. There was his stardust, his beloved. There was home.

“There,” he said, setting the coordinates for their landing. “We made it.”

Hiroim's ship was, it turned out, at least as unstable and rough at landing as it was at taking off. The hull vibrated, the seats shook, and the altitude control was... uncontrollable.

“Are you sure you know how to land this thing?” asked the Grandmaster, clinging tenaciously to the dashboard.

“It pretty much lands itself,” admitted Hiroim. “I'll try and put us down in the water.”

“Hang on, stardust,” the Grandmaster beamed, the consoles rattling alarmingly as they hurtled toward the planet at dangerous speed, “your sunshine's almost home!”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there's someone at the door.

“How can you drink your tea like that?” asked Thor, as Loki spooned another scoop of sugar into the comforting brew, redolent with the camphory sweetness of cardamom. Cardamom settled the stomach, calmed the nerves. It was a good choice.

“I'll have you know, it's very nice,” countered Loki.

“Blech,” countered Thor, with pantomime gagging noises.

“Suit yourself,” said Loki, finishing the drink with the tiniest dribble of milk. “Philistine.”

Thor was no doubt about to attempt (but not quite achieve) a witty retort, when the front door chimed.

“We're not expecting another pizza, are we?” Korg shouted from the living room, as the three of them made their way to investigate.

Loki's heart leapt to attention. It was all the cardamom tea could do to keep his anticipation in check. Despite himself, he had a good feeling about this. He opened the door.

Stood on the doorstep was an unfamiliar, serious man, wearing an unflattering top with the words “I survived the Kuiper Belt and all I got was this lousy tshirt” printed in aesthetically unforgivable lettering. So much for anticipation, he thought.

“Oh, you must be - ”

“Korg!” shouted the man.

“Babe!” replied Korg.

The man barrelled past the brothers, throwing himself into Korg's waiting arms, and off they went to... spoon, probably, if Korg's accounts were anything to go by. So that was Hiroim, thought Loki. He seemed nice.

“There you are, stardust.” And there was the Grandmaster, just poking into the doorway, his smile radiant with joy. He reached out, pressing a featherlight fingertip to Loki's chest. “Tag.”

Loki caught the Grandmaster's wrist, pulling him into a tight embrace. Almost instantly, he felt all the tension he had held in his bones for so long melt away and dissolve into the floor. The Grandmaster hummed a quiet, contented hum into his shoulder. The tangle of emotions Loki felt tumbling through him were almost impossible to extricate from one another. He could very well have wept with joy, with relief, with guilt and fear and happiness and hope.

“I didn't know if I was ever going to see you again,” he said, softly stroking the back of the Grandmaster’s neck.

“What, you didn't think I was just going to give up on this, did you?” asked the Grandmaster. “I mean, that was, without a doubt, the, uhh, the longest game of hide and seek I've ever played, but, well how about that, I win.”

“Everyone's a winner, baby,” Loki grinned, capturing the Grandmaster's lips against his, at last. The glimmer of gold at the edge of his mind's eye burst into a spectacular array of beautiful fireworks.

“You know, I think I'm gonna like it here,” the Grandmaster murmured against his cheek. 

“What about Sakaar?” asked Loki.

“Yeah, well, you know,” the Grandmaster shrugged, “they say openness to new experiences is integral to living a long and happy life, so... here I am.”

“I missed you.” Loki wound his arms around the Grandmaster again, pulling him into a long, soft kiss.

He was vaguely aware that someone in the room was clearing their throat. Oh yeah, he thought. Thor was there.

“Oh, uhh, hey there, uhh, Sparkles,” the Grandmaster waved vaguely in Thor's direction with an uncomfortable smile. “Congrats on the whole, you know, whatever it is you were, uhh, business.”

Thor eyed the pair suspiciously. “Thanks,” he said. Loki knew that look. And in that moment, Loki saw the potential for centuries of awkward family dinners. How wonderful, he thought, as he led the Grandmaster to their room.

“I know this isn't exactly the kind of palace you're used to,” said Loki, but the Grandmaster had thrown off his rumpled robes as soon as they crossed the threshold, stripped down to his little blue trunks, and leapt into bed.

“I've got everything I need right here,” he smiled, as Loki slipped gingerly beneath the covers beside him. “Mmm, let's never be parted again.”

“Ah, sunshine, I - ” Loki began, but the gentle rumble of the Grandmaster's soft snores told him that talk would wait for the morning. He closed his eyes, comforted by the slow, steady rise and fall of the Grandmaster's breathing in his arms. He felt as though, perhaps, this could be home after all.

It was the best he had slept in a very long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well! Thank you so much for joining our Space Dorks on this little adventure, I hope you enjoyed it! Do feel free to come say hi on [tumblr](http://whatthefoucault.tumblr.com) as I can assure you this isn't the last I'll have to write about these crazy ancient kids.


End file.
